


the fighter

by bluebeholder



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Academia, Age Difference, Bipolar Anders (Dragon Age), Circle of Magi, Corporal Punishment, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Life Partners, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Rite of Tranquility, Sort Of, Suicidal Thoughts, Unhappy Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-27
Updated: 2020-01-27
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:07:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22429102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluebeholder/pseuds/bluebeholder
Summary: In the moments before the Rite of Tranquility, Karl reviews his life in the Circle—mostly those parts of his life concerned with his closest friend and more-than-friend Anders. His remembrance is his last, most quiet act of rebellion.Heed the tags.
Relationships: Anders/Karl Thekla
Comments: 12
Kudos: 33





	the fighter

**Author's Note:**

> Heed the tags, please. This is not a happy story. It contains a lot of darkness.
> 
> Hopefully, though, the light still shines through. 
> 
> As far as ages go: I’m relying on the work of some lovely folks on tumblr (romancinganders and kosmonauttihai), who did the work to nail down Anders’ age. Anders is between 32 and 33 at the start of DA2; Karl is roughly seven years his senior at 39 or 40. I know, I know, age gaps, but it seems appropriate (and I hope my in-fic explanation for it makes sense). Play with me in this space! 
> 
> This fic _point blank ignores_ what exists in the World of Thedas book. I have a lot of (nebulous) thoughts about what parts of canon we choose to keep and discard as fan creators. For the moment, just know I’ve discarded a lot and I’m rolling with what you see here.

In those final moments, Karl almost laughs. The path that led him here has been strange and unexpected. In all his years, he had never thought of himself as a fighter.

He lived in the Circle for thirty-three years, having come there at the age of six; he knew the way of things. Karl considered himself a realist, not, as Anders so often accused him of being, a pessimist. The First Enchanter, no matter how kind-hearted or strong-willed, could never overrule the command of a Templar or Reverend Mother. The Grand Enchanter, while they may have the ear of the Divine, could no more sway the opinion of the Chantry than the lowliest apprentice mage.

That did not mean, of course, that Karl was content with his circumstances. After his Harrowing, he wrote for the Libertarian Fraternity. He advocated for younger mages with the First Enchanter at Kinloch Hold, though Irving rarely _did_ anything with Karl’s advice.

He also did his Maker-damned best to protect Anders. That, in itself, would be a full-time profession; Anders seemed to make it his life’s goal to leap headfirst into every trouble he could find. For the most part, that only meant (metaphorically) raising every blasted demon he could manage both in and out of classes. He asked provocative questions of his instructors, pulled pranks on arrogant and domineering peers, and mouthed off to Templars at every turn.

More frighteningly, Anders was a runner. He had five successful escape attempts under his belt by the time that Karl was transferred to the Kirkwall Circle; there were four more unsuccessful ones the Templars never knew about. Every time Anders landed in trouble, big or small, and though it gave him stabbing headaches from worry, Karl tried to help.

Anders was difficult from the moment he arrived in the Circle. Karl, then almost nineteen and just barely past his Harrowing, took one look at the gawky, angry, twelve-year-old who refused to say a single word, and knew that this one was _trouble_. He tried to coax a name out of the child, but the blazing glare and silent scowl he received for that kindness told Karl that this was not appreciated. So, like everyone else, Karl called him simply ‘Anders.’

Because of their specializations, Karl was never Anders’ instructor. While Anders showed an instant aptitude for spirit healing, Karl was much more dedicated to force magic. He had the self-control and focus necessary to harness the raw energies of the mind, as well as the studious nature to experiment with such magic in a controlled environment.

Raw magic never frightened Karl. Indeed, it excited him, set his heart racing and made him feel as if he could tear down the walls of Kinloch Hold with a flick of his wrist. As if he could blast Lake Calenhad’s waters open with a thought. He knew force mages who feared their own powers, but Karl never did. He _reveled_ in magic.

Still, it made him conscious of just _why_ Circles were necessary. Someone like him, if they lacked control or had a mind set on destruction, could do terrible things. Karl did not argue that point, and so he contented himself with theoretical writings and debates-by-post with other Circles.

As a result of all this, though, he and Anders did not truly make their acquaintance until Anders was seventeen years old and Karl was almost twenty-five. Oh, Karl _heard_ of Anders. Who didn’t? He was the reason that they didn’t get any time outdoors anymore, and the reason that apprentices needed escorts at all times in the second-floor libraries, and the reason that any wagons leaving the area around the Tower were stopped by a full complement of Templars to be searched.

He was also the reason that a secret staircase leading through the walls was discovered and subsequently bricked up, which Karl found regrettable. He’d always suspected secret passages in the Tower. Now he’d never get the chance to explore them.

After Anders passed his Harrowing—with _flying_ colors, according to witnesses, despite the fact that he took it earlier than usual and after only five years of study in the Circle—he and Karl were placed in the same small dormitory on the second floor of the Tower. Karl’s former roommate had been transferred to the Perendale Circle in Nevarra, leaving an empty bed for the new full-fledged mage.

He was unaware of Anders’ arrival until returning from the library late one night to find Anders sitting on the free bed, almost as if waiting for him. He stood up when Karl walked in. “I’m your new roommate,” he said, without preamble.

“…congratulations on passing your Harrowing?” Karl just stood in the doorway, nonplussed.

“Thanks,” Anders said. He paused, glanced over Karl’s shoulder as if to check for passing listeners, and asked in a low voice, “Does the lock on your window work?”

Karl gave Anders a long, _long_ look. “I am _not_ having any part in this,” he said.

Anders smiled at him, bright and charming, and Karl had a sinking feeling. “Just cover for me, won’t you? I’ll owe you one.”

“…please don’t do anything stupid,” Karl said.

“Haven’t you heard?” Anders asked, turning to the window and fiddling with the catch. “I’m the _cleverest_ mage in this whole blasted Tower.”

That was the trouble with Anders. He _was_ the cleverest in the whole Tower. Not the most well-educated or cautious, and _certainly_ not the wisest. But his wits were always about him. And here was the thing Karl found strangest: unlike other troublemakers, Anders _always_ took credit for the chaos.

He caused a false alarm in the courtyard, then removed a board from the stairs leading to the barracks so that running guards would trip and fall in a cascade hilarious to onlookers. He rigged a door so that it could only be entered and not exited; it had to be broken down to free the Knight-Commander from the privy, to the man’s embarrassment. There were more, but the one Karl really remembered, in terms of sheer originality, was the ink incident.

One of the senior enchanters, a particularly arrogant woman who wore gloves at all times (except when doling out punishment), was known to take the switch liberally to the hands of young apprentices who so much as breathed out of turn. The Templars and First Enchanter, despite complaints, always turned a blind eye in the name of ‘discipline.’

In retaliation on behalf of several bloody-handed children who came crying to him in the infirmary, Anders somehow got hold of indelible red ink with which to stain the enchanter’s gloves. When she removed them to take up the switch, she found that her hands were already stained red as blood. Her screams attracted the attention of the entire Circle. It would have been a mystery—the children involved were tight-lipped—except that Anders took credit on the spot.

“Best whip the skin off your own hands to get the ink off,” he said, right in front of every authority in the Tower. “You’re lucky I couldn’t enchant those to _bite_ you.”

Of course Anders got a whipping for that stunt. Karl was the one who ended up tending to his raw back, applying salve to the open wounds. The Templar who meted out the punishment had taken a little too much pleasure in it. “Why do you do this?” he asked, flinching at every hiss of pain Anders made.

“Someone finally took her to task for it,” Anders said into the pillow. “They’ll watch her more closely now. Nobody else has to be hurt. _Ouch_!”

Karl pulled back. “Did I hurt you?”

“Of course you did,” Anders muttered, turning his head so Karl could just see his profile. “That doesn’t mean _stop_ , Karl.”

“I hate hearing you hurt,” Karl said.

“You’d never last a day in the infirmary. If someone cried over a paper cut, you’d panic.”

“Not all of us are cut out to be spirit healers, Anders.”

The thing of it was that Anders was _deliberate_ in his chaos. He recruited allies on occasion, but always willing ones; he avoided damage to bystanders whenever possible. It didn’t take Karl long to notice that Anders picked specific targets, too, singling out people who abused their power over others. He always pushed the line—Anders was the target of so many punishments that he once asked the First Enchanter to name a whip after him, “you know, the way people name legendary swords”—but no one ever saw permanent injury from one of Anders’ ideas, save perhaps to their reputation.

Karl believed that this was the only reason no one ever pushed for harsher punishments. Chantry law said that no mage past their Harrowing could forcibly made Tranquil, and such was generally the case in this Circle; still, a mage who provoked enough powerful people ran the risk anyway. Despite the risk, the Knight-Commander could never find sufficient justification in Anders’ actions to call for the Rite.

Even had he tried, the First Enchanter would have stood firmly in the way. And as popular as Anders was—among the young apprentices for his kindness and humor, among his peers for his skill and friendship, among the senior enchanters for his intelligence and potential—making him Tranquil might have caused a riot.

That didn’t stop Karl from worrying.

“Why do you fight like this?” Karl asked one evening, working on a letter to a fellow Libertarian at the Ghislain Circle in Orlais. From his small desk, he had to look sideways to see Anders, which meant he couldn’t quite make out Anders’ expression.

Anders, lying on his bed and staring at the ceiling with his arms wrapped around his pillow, laughed. “Do you want the flippant answer or the serious one?”

“Both,” Karl said, setting down his quill and turning to look at Anders full on.

“Well, there’s not much else to do in here, is there?” Anders asked. He rolled on his side, arm folded under his head, loose hair falling around his face. “At least I can make people laugh.”

Karl folded his arms, leaning back in his chair. “And the serious answer?”

Anders blinked at him, slow and lazy, like a cat. “It’s my way of _doing_ something to change this horrible place,” he said. “We both do it. You write manifestos. I fight Templars.”

“You’re in danger every time you make someone angry,” Karl pointed out.

“You think you’re not in danger, writing letters like that?” Anders blew a strand of hair out of his eyes. “All it would take to get you in real trouble is the wrong word to the wrong person. Or a new Divine deciding that the Fraternity is dangerous.”

For a moment, Karl paused. He studied his roommate in the dim light from the single candle on Karl’s desk. Cast mostly in shadow save the gold highlighting his face, the long lines of Anders’ body looked like something from a painting. His eyes glimmered, and the half-smile he wore looked downright mysterious. He was…very beautiful.

“I suppose you’re right,” Karl said, shaking off those thoughts. “Just…be careful. We don’t want you to end up hurt.”

“There are days where I think you’d be the only person to care,” Anders said, far too cheerful for his melancholy words.

Karl shook his head, unwilling to argue further, and blew out the candle. The rest of the letter could wait for tomorrow.

Sharing a room like this meant that Karl was privy to Anders at nearly all times. With few places for recreation, limited study space in the quiet libraries, constant Templar observation in common rooms, and laboratory preference going to the senior enchanters, most in the Tower spent their free time in their rooms. Anders and Karl were no exception to the rule. Though Karl made an effort to walk around the Tower every day, stretching his legs, he always ended up back in his room.

The rooms weren’t much—each mage was allotted a narrow bed, a small desk, an uncomfortable chair, and a chest for their personal belongings and clothes. Anders was a neat man (strange in context of his chaotic life), preferring everything in order on his desk, his bed crisply made, and all unnecessary items in his chest. Karl, by contrast, was given to clutter: he had paper stacked on his desk and in a pile beside it, his bed was never entirely made, and he was in the habit of acquiring oddments from around the Tower which adorned his space.

“I hate living with you sometimes,” Anders groused one day, returning from a long shift in the infirmary and stepping over one of Karl’s discarded papers. “How do you live in…this?”

Karl, sitting on his bed with a book on his lap, a paper and pencil beside him for notes, and three more books scattered on the bed, shrugged and looked meaningfully at Anders’ half of the room. “I don’t know, how do you live in _that_?”

Anders gave him a halfhearted glare, flopping down onto his bed. “I enjoy order in my space, thank you very much.”

“As if you didn’t set off an explosion in Bouchard’s laboratory last week,” Karl said.

“You know, he shouldn’t have had us working with sela petrae and drakestone if he _really_ didn’t want someone to set something off,” Anders said. He wrapped his arms around his pillow and grinned. “I didn’t expect alchemy to be so much _fun_.”

Karl thought of the hours Anders spent scouring pots in the kitchen as consequence for half-destroying the lab, and of how no amount of care had been able to soothe his hands, rubbed raw and bloody from the abrasive sands used to clean pots. “We clearly have very different definitions of fun.”

“You like my definition of fun, though,” Anders said, “and you like _me_.” He was as satisfied with himself as ever, and Karl couldn’t really argue with that. He _did_ like Anders. That was the trouble.

They were roommates for seven very long years before anything changed. In some ways, Karl felt like no time had passed at all: days in the Circle dragged by while years flew fast as sparrows. Yet somehow in that strange time he’d watched Anders grow from a still-gawky, untrained boy into a sure and confident man.

Long daily practice with his staff gave him a strong body, which Karl could not help but notice no matter how often he turned his head when Anders changed clothes. Anders took care of his appearance. Though Karl made sure he was always neat, Anders was very nearly vain in his looks, which forced Karl to do his best not to stare.

Of course, Karl could not help but know of Anders’ exploits. He was not overt in his affections, but he was known to be something of a flirt (with everyone but Karl, apparently). Karl himself had snuck a few trysts with another mage in need of company and release; if rumor was to be believed, Anders had done _something_ with half the adult mages in the Tower.

“I would never touch a Templar willingly,” Anders told Karl flatly, when _that_ rumor started.

The word “willingly” gave Karl chills. He did not pry, though. No one liked to speak of what could happen to attractive mages under the eye of certain Templars.

In all of this, Anders never seemed to show interest in Karl. No innuendo-laden jokes flew between them. He did not aim flirtatious looks at Karl. Though Anders didn’t hide his body—difficult to do anyway in a place with such limited privacy—he never put himself on display. They were friends, _close_ friends who stood close to one another and combed one another’s hair and were prone to lingering brushes of hands, but that was all.

At some point, Karl’s feelings of genuine friendliness had evolved into something more. He _never_ spoke of it, because to do so in this place was to slap a target on his back, but he was sure Anders had noticed. Karl decided that he would not make the first move, but he would not say no if Anders did.

In the end, Anders _did_ make the first move, but not in the way Karl expected or wanted.

The night was late, after most had gone to bed, and no one stirred in the hallways. Anders had not yet returned to their room, which Karl found odd. Perhaps he was merely in the library, lost in some particularly interesting text.

Karl had only just closed his eyes when Anders slipped into the room. Despite the darkness, Karl sat up, looking at the silhouette in the dim light from the open door. “Anders?”

There was no answer. Karl watched Anders’ shadow methodically strip off shoes and his outer robe, pull the tie from his hair, and toss it all onto the floor. In the silence, Anders’ breathing was disturbingly harsh.

He sat down on the edge of Karl’s bed. “Sorry I woke you,” he whispered.

“I was awake.”

“Oh.”

“What happened…?”

Anders shook his head. Karl, eyes adjusted to the dim light, could just barely see the expressionless look on his face. He reached up, absently, rubbing at his jaw. “I’d…rather not discuss it.”

For a long time, or what seemed like a long time, Anders sat there in dead silence. Karl waited, unwilling to lie down again. “You need to sleep,” he said at last.

Anders turned to look at him. “I know there’s no space, but…can I stay here?”

It required no thought. “Of course.”

There really _wasn’t_ enough space for two tall men on the narrow bed. They made it work, mostly tangled together in the kind of instant intimacy the Circle always bred between secret partners. There was never enough time to _take_ time for things like this. Karl didn’t mind. Having Anders pressed warmly against him, putting his arm—pinned beneath them—to sleep, was good, despite the circumstances.

If Anders was back in his own bed come daybreak, well. Karl didn’t mind. He was back the next night, and the night after that.

Their first kiss, shared under cover of darkness on a cold winter’s night, was one of the few truly sweet moments Karl ever experienced.

Of course, they were careful. A whisper of impropriety could get one or both of them shipped off to separate Circles. They were in _slightly_ less danger than certain other couples, because for them there was no risk of children, but that did not mean the Knight-Commander would be any happier if Anders and Karl were found to be involved.

Even in his head, Karl didn’t dare call it a romance. He preferred other terms—mutual appreciation, perhaps. He _certainly_ appreciated Anders. The elegance of his long hands at work, the curve of his wide mouth whether in smile or frown, the shine and fire of his eyes…but these were only physical details.

Far more important, to Karl, were things like the warmth Anders radiated in his arms, the sound of a quiet genuine laugh that seemed reserved for Karl alone to hear, and the trust it took for Anders to whisper the most seditious, rebellious things to Karl in the dark.

It might have been strange outside the Circle, considering that Karl was thirty-one to Anders’ twenty-four, but here they had lived much the same life. Indeed, Anders remembered life outside the regimentation of the Circle, which Karl did not. They were mages of equal power and standing, though Anders was in many ways the stronger-willed between them.

Karl stuck to his position that active subversion of the Templars was a terrible idea. To his mind, there were subtler ways—letters, the formation of friendships and networks of community, research—to create change. Anders, though as he aged calmed down a little, was never anything less than forceful in his arguments with everyone and anyone who would listen.

And calm could never be mistaken for a refusal to cause trouble. Case in point: the arrival of a pompous new Knight-Lieutenant to the Tower, who had an unfortunately strong Orlesian accent. Within the first five minutes of their acquaintance, Karl watched Anders turn the man into a mockery of himself and all of Orlais with pantomime and mimicry. It was a performance worthy of the stage.

But the Knight-Lieutenant took extreme exception to Anders’ insolence, and…well, Karl spent another evening patching Anders up.

“I think our new Knight-Lieutenant really likes me,” Anders said reflectively, sitting at his desk and holding a cold compress to his face.

“He punched you in the face, Anders.”

“I’m sure that will do wonders for his reputation,” Anders said. His voice was entirely too smug for someone whose own blood was still spattered down the front of his robes.

Karl sighed, rubbing his face with one hand. “Can you please, please, take this seriously?”

“Even Greagoir was on my side this time.”

“He didn’t stop you from getting hit.”

Anders shrugged. “Yes, but he laughed. That’s what counts. No one will take the _poor_ Knight-Lieutenant seriously.”

Sparing a glance at the door to check for passerby, Karl took Anders’ hand. “He’ll have it out for you now. You _must_ be careful with him. I’ve heard rumors already about why they sent him from Val Royeaux and they are _not_ pleasant.”

“Good thing that this place is such a midden anyway, he’ll fit right in.” Anders set the compress down and took Karl’s hand in both of his. There was bruising all round his nose and spread over his right cheekbone. It was not a pretty look, but his eyes shone bright as ever. “I know what I’m doing, Karl.”

“Is there more to this?” Karl couldn’t help asking. “Or is it just a way to pass the time?”

Anders lifted Karl’s hand to his lips. “I’ve told you before…someone has to fight back. Show them that mages won’t just lie down and be trampled to death.”

“Join the Libertarians, then,” Karl said. He avoided touching Anders’ face, because of the swelling, but brushed a thumb over his lips. “You’re a fine writer. It would be easy for you to get your thoughts to the head of the Fraternity—perhaps even to the College in Cumberland and the Grand Enchanter.”

“That’s your way, Karl,” Anders said. He smiled a little crookedly. “I admire you for it. But it’s not my way. Never has been.”

“Your way could get you _killed_.”

The smile faded entirely. “I heard the rumors about the Knight-Lieutenant too. I figure…if he’s looking at me, then he’s not going to be looking at anyone else.”

Karl shook his head. “You can’t martyr yourself.”

“I’d rather do it than ask someone else,” Anders said. He took up the compress again, chilling it with a little magic, and pressed it to his face again. “A broken nose is a small price to pay.”

It seemed to Karl that it was a herald of higher prices to come. But Anders never asked. Karl didn’t offer further opinions on the matter.

Save this persistent worry for Anders’ safety, the five years they shared were in many ways the best of Karl’s life.

Of course, they were busy men. Anders was always in high demand in the infirmary, tending to any and all injuries for mages and Templars alike (save, of course, those that were not permitted to be healed by magic in order to reinforce a punishment). Karl, meanwhile, as he approached the position of senior enchanter, found himself increasingly in-demand as a teacher.

Despite the close quarters they kept, there were whole weeks where they might see each other only in passing. Anders would stumble in after an overnight shift in the infirmary and yawn a good morning to Karl as he left to teach an early class. Karl would come in at midnight after an invitation to do some astronomy work with a senior enchanter to find Anders just blowing out the candle after completing a draft of a manuscript on some novel application of an herbalist technique.

They stole moments when and where they could. Most often it would be late at night, when both of them happened to be in their room at once. Other times, the trysts were more elaborate: Karl faking an injury to see Anders while he was on duty alone in the infirmary, Anders calling in favors to earn them unscheduled dueling practice with each other.

This last became a creative form of intimacy. The best magical duels between well-matched opponents could become more like dances, synchronized and ritualized. Karl had heard it said that dancing itself was a “vertical expression of horizontal desire,” and it seemed that dueling was in the same class. He might not be able to become familiar with Anders as he wanted in bed, but the fire—sometimes literal—flying between them in the practice ring was to Karl just as intoxicating as any kiss stolen under cover of night.

Of course, Anders liked it because it allowed him to get away with rebellious activity under the literal eyes of watchful Templars. Karl just sighed and let that pass. At least they were both happy.

“Sometimes I think you only enjoy being with me because it’s against the rules,” Karl said thoughtlessly, one evening when they worked alone and late in the library together. It was a joint research paper on the application of certain force magic techniques on spirit healing, certain to annoy half the senior enchanters in the Tower. Karl was looking forward to arguing the finer points of the hypothesis with Irving, in particular.

Anders turned to Karl so quickly he almost knocked the book he was reading off the table. His eyes were wide. “ _What_?”

Well, the cat was out of the bag now. “You’re always looking for new ways to do what’s forbidden,” Karl said. He turned to face Anders, leaning on the table. “What we do is _certainly_ forbidden.”

“Karl…”

“I wouldn’t mind, Anders,” Karl said. He _did_ mind, in some small corner of his always-aching heart, but to say that aloud would be…impolitic. “It’s a privilege to have your attention, for whatever reason you give it.”

Under the table, out of sight of the library door, Anders took Karl’s hand. “Listen to me,” he said, with the kind of deadly seriousness he rarely used anymore. “You are the _one good thing_ in this Tower.”

“Surely not.”

“The one good thing,” Anders repeated.

In that moment, he looked at Karl the same way he looked at the gates to the Tower.

Karl was terrified.

But his heart felt better than it had in a long, long time.

Happy heart or no, caring for Anders could be…challenging. There were times when he would be a whirlwind of energy, laughing and cheerful, every word snapping with charisma and passion. In these moments Karl found himself pulled along, caught up in the moment, inspired by anything Anders could possibly say.

He would spin stories for Karl of what they would do when—not if—they escaped. He would argue with anyone and everyone, with words so inspired that people were left stumbling in his wake. He would practice magic for hours, work in the infirmary around the clock, and somehow have energy left to pull Karl aside for nearly-discovered passionate trysts.

And that was all well and good, but it was hard to sleep when Anders left candles burning all night while he worked. It was difficult to keep their relationship a secret when Anders couldn’t keep his hands off Karl. Karl hated that, during these times, he was ever patching Anders up from altercations with Templars and other mages alike. He struggled to get Anders to slow down enough to _eat_ , sometimes. There were four unsuccessful escape attempts during such times, which Karl managed by a great deal of deceit to keep from the ears of their keepers.

There was also the time that Anders spontaneously pierced his ear. Where he got the gold earring, Karl never knew, but Karl _appreciated_ the way it looked. That impulsive decision was a good one.

But these times did not last forever, and as difficult as they could be Karl couldn’t help but wish sometimes that they would stay. When they ended, it would at first be as though they entered calm seas, with the fires in Anders’ eyes burning low again, and his words spoken at an understandable pace. These were easy days.

And then…no matter what Karl did or did not do, melancholy would slip in. It was familiar to everyone in the Circle; many, even most, mages would suffer a bout of melancholy from long confinement at least once in their life. Anders suffered them _regularly_ , and deeply.

His neat habits would deteriorate: bed unmade, clothes left scattered about, candles melted on his desk, papers balled up and thrown on the floor. He would skip his infirmary shifts, remaining in their room and lying for hours on his bed. He would skip meals, not for too much energy but because he did not have enough to make it to the dining hall. His clothes, unlaundered, would turn musty. Anders wore them anyway. He would barely even bother to comb his own hair.

There was _nothing_ Karl could do, save sit with him and listen. The only words Anders had would be ones of despair. Telling Karl dully to leave him, snarling at himself for his grand plans and failures, and harsher words. It hurt to hear, and to see.

At least Anders would accept help, from Karl and only Karl, so Karl helped. He combed Anders’ hair, when Anders couldn’t manage it; he brought Anders’ clothes with his to the laundry; he cleaned their whole room instead of only his half. When Anders couldn’t make it out of bed, Karl arranged for others to cover his shifts in the infirmary. Karl’s standing in the Tower was good enough that he could get permission, though Anders was not cooped up in the infirmary, to bring him food from the dining hall, even if he couldn’t muster the energy to eat it.

The most deeply frightening moments were the ones where Anders simply…stopped. He withdrew fully, refusing to speak to Karl. He would regain some energy and go through his day mechanically, either unsmiling or visibly forcing a smile. At these times Karl watched him most closely, following him like a shadow, praying that Anders would keep his head this time.

He never did.

Something would happen, something almost _small_ —a shift at the infirmary gone wrong, too many quiet days in a row, something else—and Karl would find himself precipitated into convincing Anders that he should _not_ kill himself. Asking for help was a non-starter. Anders didn’t trust most of their peers enough to speak openly with them. Templars would imprison Anders or, if they were one of the crueler ones, perhaps _encourage_ him.

“I don’t see the point,” Anders said once, staring down from the high window where Karl found him standing. “There are things worse than death and this place is one of them.”

“You make it better,” Karl said. Right now, he was fearless of being discovered, holding Anders’ hand in his, as if that could stop Anders from…

“I drag you down, Karl,” Anders said. “Do you think I don’t see?”

Karl shook his head. “I worry for you,” he said. “It saddens me that you hurt, and that I can’t help you. I stay with you of my own choosing.”

Anders looked at Karl with red-rimmed eyes. “I wish you wouldn’t.”

“That’s one wish I will _not_ be granting,” Karl said, lifting Anders’ hand to his lips with a fragile smile. Somehow, that made Anders smile, too.

By the grace of the Maker, Karl somehow managed to talk Anders down every time.

For all this, though, Karl still had his own life to lead. Very soon, he would be advanced to senior enchanter, with all the accompanying privileges, but it required a great deal of work to make the position. He had classes to teach: introductory classes for very young apprentices new to the Circle, more advanced classes for apprentices nearing their Harrowing who showed aptitude for force magic, and tutoring for other mages in general. He found himself in increasing demand as a research assistant for senior enchanters, simply because of his reputation as a methodical, dedicated worker.

And of course there was his own work to do. Karl was working on a new application of force magic—a novel technique that would allow force magic to be used less as a wave or a wall and more as a _lance_. He modeled it on the techniques of jousters he saw in an exhibition that several of the (more well-behaved) Circle mages were permitted to attend.

It was imperfect, but Karl had refined it to the point that he could drive the lance of force straight through a sheet of steel at close range. There was none of the business of “glancing off” that a real lance would suffer, but it was still prone to backlash if improperly applied. Karl ended up flat on his back during more than one practice session, to the great amusement of onlookers.

This was, apparently, what ended his time at the Tower. Karl received notice one day, apropos of nothing, that he was to be transferred to the Kirkwall Circle, leaving the next day. “They have many force mages in Kirkwall,” Irving said, when he delivered the news. “You’ll fit in well there. Be a great asset.”

“You know I’d rather not go,” Karl said, folding his arms.

Irving looked tired. “I’m aware. But you’ll be far better positioned as a senior enchanter in Kirkwall than you ever would be here.”

Karl shook his head. “I have unfinished business here.”

“All your work will go with you.”

“You _know_ that’s not what I mean.” Karl looked Irving dead in the eye.

“I know,” Irving said. He folded his hands on the desk. “I would be a fool not to know why you don’t wish to leave. But the decision is out of my hands.”

Something cold clenched its fingers around Karl’s heart. The Templars knew. How, Karl didn’t know, but if they knew there was nothing he could do. Anything he tried would only make the situation worse. “Protect your charges, First Enchanter. _All_ of them.”

“I will,” Irving said. In that moment, Karl saw a flicker of shame on his face. It wasn’t an apology, or a promise to make this right, but it was all Karl was going to get.

He found Anders in the infirmary and pulled him aside, away from a friendly argument with one of the other healers. “I’m being taken to Kirkwall tomorrow,” Karl said, without preamble.

Anders’ face went white. “ _No_.”

“The decision’s been made.” Karl’s hands shook.

“You can’t go,” Anders said. For a split second, Karl saw a frightened, angry, twelve-year-old boy peeking through. “Please. We can figure something out—I’ve been planning for a while, you and I could—”

Karl shook his head. “They have our phylacteries, Anders,” he said. “They’ll find us if we run and it will be far worse for us than simple separation.”

“We can do something about those,” Anders said. “You and I together—Karl, we could—”

“Stop it,” Karl said sharply. “There’s no point in fighting this. It’s been decided. The best we can do is part as friends.”

Anders looked like Karl had slapped him. He stepped back a little, looking away from Karl. “Just friends,” he said. “Right.”

“I couldn’t ask for better,” Karl said, willing Anders to understand him.

“Nor could I,” Anders said. After a long, silent moment, he looked back at Karl. “You know I’ll find you, right? You might be willing to give up without a fight but I’m not. I don’t care _what_ I have to do. I _will_ get out of here and I _will_ find you.”

Karl didn’t have anything to say to that. He should have looked around for observers, but just then he didn’t care. He pulled Anders in and kissed him once, hard.

There was nothing else to say.

On the journey to Kirkwall, Karl turned thirty-seven. There was never a great deal of celebration in the Circle, but on the road with Templars there was none at all. He spent the day thinking about age, and time, and things he should have done but never did.

He found it morbid that the Kirkwall Circle was kept in a place called the _Gallows_. By comparison to this place, the Circle at Kinloch Hold had been a positively merry place. Mages here looked over their shoulders as if expecting a sword to fall on them at any moment. The children were subdued, permitted no real friendships at all. New mages where Karl came from were given at least some form of welcome; here, Karl was given a bed and a set of rules and left to figure the rest out for himself.

Really, Karl blamed the Knight-Commander, a stern, cold woman named Meredith. She clearly hated the First Enchanter Orsino—who seemed a far stronger man than Irving ever was. The feeling appeared to be mutual. Mages were nothing to Meredith and she made that _quite_ clear to everyone, and Orsino fought back.

Still, as Karl knew his whole life, the strength of a First Enchanter was nothing against the will of a malicious Templar, in the end.

Karl had the awful feeling that, if he and Anders had lived here, Anders would have been made Tranquil for far smaller offenses than he was allowed back at the Circle Tower. There were _many_ Tranquil here, silent and emotionless, far more than there ever were in Karl’s memory. Their presence encouraged Karl to keep his head down, to cause no trouble, to draw no attention.

Days here slid by, dreary and tedious. There was no joy to be found in the Gallows. The library was good and it was Karl’s retreat, his way away from the world. He published his work on the lance of force and began refining it into an application that would permit it to be used more as a hurled javelin than a close-range weapon. It would, he thought, be useful to Knight-Enchanters. Yet he had no research partners, and few people were willing to engage in the kind of spirited debate Karl was used to.

No matter how he tried to distract himself, for the first time in more than thirteen years, Karl was _lonely_.

He missed Anders with a dull ache that never really went away. He missed secret laughter in the dark and the affectionate touch of someone else’s hand. Though it gave him headaches, Karl would have given anything to hear Anders laying out another grand escape or planning some mischief.

It only got worse as news of the worsening Blight came from Ferelden. The king was dead. The country was in complete upheaval. The Blight was consuming everything. Karl was half out of his mind with worry for his old friends, for Anders.

Then the news came: the Circle Tower had fallen. Details were given only vaguely to rank-and-file mages like Karl, who didn’t seem to deserve the courtesy of news, but the word “slaughter” almost made Karl pass out. Demons and abominations had destroyed the Tower. Any remaining mages had been taken in by the Grey Wardens to fight the Blight; no one had names of the survivors.

In the tension of the Gallows, no one noticed Karl slipping into melancholy as he grieved. If Anders had been there, he was either dead, or fighting the Blight beside the Grey Wardens, which was a death sentence itself. They would never see each other again.

And then, almost three years after Karl arrived at the Gallows, a letter arrived. In a familiar hand, scrawled fast and tense, a short message that told him only this: Anders was here, in Kirkwall, and standing by to break him out.

Karl, once upon a time, would have told Anders to back down. He would have refused. But in his time at the Gallows he’d seen mages past their Harrowing turned Tranquil for no good reason. He’d seen the treatment of young women who caught the eyes of the vile Ser Alrik, and the way that Meredith tacitly encouraged the behavior. He’d heard the rumors of something called the “Tranquil Solution,” seen the very public confrontations between Orsino and Meredith, seen mages without a scar on their hands executed for conducting blood magic.

He wrote back to Anders and told him that, yes, he would go. If Anders could find him a way out, he would go. He’d risk it.

But then _everything_ went wrong. A Templar intercepted a letter Karl intended for Anders, marking the day for their reunion. Karl found himself dragged before the Knight-Commander, informed that he had committed a grievous violation of Chantry Law.

Meredith allowed the letter to be sent, in order to catch the apostate breaking mages out of the Gallows. Karl did not beg her to do otherwise: even Orsino, standing by with a look of regret, agreed that it was necessary. Karl had no allies here.

He was not surprised when she ordered the Rite of Tranquility, nor that Orsino did not argue the matter. Somehow, he wasn’t even afraid for himself. Karl had always thought he would be, in the face of this fate. But he was afraid for the mages and dockworkers who’d acted as their messengers, afraid for _Anders_. It was for them that Karl finally, after all these years, fought back the way Anders always wanted him to.

Two Templars nearly went through the _wall_ with the blast of force magic Karl hurled at them. He pierced another’s armor with a lance of force, skewering her straight through. He would have done more, even tried to attack Meredith, but Karl wasn’t trained and tested in real battle. He left his back unguarded.

One of the Templars hit him from behind, sending him to his knees. 

They restrained him. Karl was surprised they didn’t execute him immediately, but Meredith had cruel streak. She’d enjoy the irony of Anders arriving in the Gallows only to find the man he meant to rescue made Tranquil.

And now, as the lyrium brand heats in the brazier, Karl chooses to think only of happier times. Of the feeling of magic in his hands, of the stars above the Circle Tower shining on the waters of Lake Calendhad, of Anders. He’ll make his last moments count. They won’t take the freedom of his thoughts from him until that brand touches his skin.

That has always been _his_ way of fighting back.


End file.
